With My Bare Hands
by Kay the Cricketed
Summary: [Roy-centric angst] After the massacre, they left the soldiers to clean up the bodies.


_With My Bare Hands _

By Kay 

Disclaimer: I don't own FMA. If I did, Roy would gets hugs from everyone. Even Scar. I bet Scar gives kickass hugs. 

Author's Notes: Roy-centric angst! Rejoice! I've been experimenting lately in my livejournal with drabbles about the Ishvar war, and decided to upload some to FF Net because... I haven't uploaded anything for a while. ;; Again. 

Rating PG-13 for slightly disturbing content. And an OC, due to the fact that I felt this idea wouldn't work as well if it was someone Roy knew personally. I also don't know if this is how they would have actually dealt with the bodies... but it makes this idea work. Go with it. I also mess around with how the war worked itself, but... whoops?

* * *

They didn't make the alchemists deal with the bodies. No, that had been the soldiers' job— cleaning up after the massacre, taking care of the thousands upon thousands of corpses left behind on that night. The air had been so sick with the scent of acidic blood and burnt flesh that the men tied white handkerchiefs around their nose and mouths to keep from breathing it in. They moved slowly, dully, throughout the ruins of the city that had collapsed into the white sands of the desert, milling idly through the rubble until they were covered in sweat and dust. At first, it had been hard to touch the bodies— they were now cold, stiff, torn apart— but in time, their hands grew familiar with the texture of them through the gloves. 

Some of them were nothing but packed ash, and fell apart under their fingers. 

The wagons were brought in to carry them all. It had been the initial thought to many of the men that the Ishvarites would be left to find their own dead, and bury them in the manner appropriate to their culture. But when no one came (and how could they have expected any survivors to venture forth?), they silently began pulling the brown-skinned corpses onto the cart beside those with the blue uniform. Soldier and Ishvarite lay side by side, their limbs strewn together. No one questioned it when the wagons returned with the piles of mixed men and women. 

The carts came in an endless stream, their wheels sinking into the sand with the weight. When the sun hit its highest point, boiling everything in sight, the flies came to land on them— swarms of the beasts, black and noisy in the stillness left over from the battle. The men covered their heads with hats, dishrags, netting. Anything to protect their faces. By this time, the stench was clinging to them— the flies were attracted to them as much as the dead. 

There were pale, grim faces. Haunted, lost expressions. Determination. Despair. Sickness. These were the brave men of the military, their boots clunking sluggishly together as they walked in the afternoon. Some of them muttered prayers under their breath. Some of them broke down into shudders. Others looked on as though blind, unseeing, focused on a distant point in the invisible distance while lugging the ragged torso remains of a man onto the wagon already heaped near-full. 

They started covering the wagons with tarps when they were finished. To protect them from the flying sand and sun. The flies. To hide them. 

It wasn't until late in the evening, when the soldiers were still choking on the dry earth in the air, that Private Darson noticed him. He had to sweep the soaking blonde bangs from his forehead to squint, but the image didn't change. He dropped the body of a girl no older than his own, only flinching slightly when it hit the ground with a hard sound. 

"Uh, sir?" 

Next to him, the blue-uniformed man looked up. There was no expression on his face— it was an unreadable board of white and black— but when he picked up the fallen corpse, it was infinitely gentle. He stared at Private Darson solemnly through slips of charcoal black hair, purple bruises beginning to stain under his eyes. 

His finely-boned hands were bare, the fingers marked with black soot and crusted blood. It was the first time Darson had seen those hands. They touched the girl's body without any hesitation, and the young man felt his stomach lurch, because they had all been given gloves to use in order to avoid contact with the rotting flesh. 

"The alchemists aren't required to do this, sir," he finally stammered. It was a hefty body; being burnt made it leaden. It looked as though it would bowl the man over almost, though he had no doubts about the strength lying under that elegant exterior. 

"Private," the man acknowledged. He turned around, heading towards the wagon without further words. A weary determination was set into the click of his boots. 

The young man watched silently, a perplexed face giving away to dawning understanding. His eyes darkened. And then, quickly striding after the man, he put a hand on his shoulder. 

The man turned to frown at him. 

"Sir," Darson said. "Let me help you with that." 

Almost immediately, the frown fell into a surprised, honest expression. For a long moment, the two young men stared at each other. Then, his dark eyes softening, the man said, "Thank you, Private… but this is a burden I will carry on my own." 

"Sir—" 

But Roy Mustang had already turned away. 

_The End _


End file.
